


blurring lines

by azureforest



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, background alm/celica, like super high tier unrequited love folks, mentions of ram crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 04:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11639115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azureforest/pseuds/azureforest
Summary: he runs, wanderlust a constant in his life, even when it's never really there.it makes for quite the convenient excuse.





	blurring lines

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to another episode of character study/introspection, aka leo unintentionally projects on his fave really really hard and ends up rolling with it. apologies in advance

They are children touched by wanderlust- In their eyes, in their minds, where images of mountains and woods they’ve never seen materialize and fade like wisps of smoke. They can only imagine the stony crags from words in books, only imagine waves lapping against the shore with salt stinging at their eyes, the air fresh and briny.

Alm reads those words to him until he can understand, link the pronunciation to the letters he’s learning at school. They learn the words together to keep bringing the world outside their little village to life, again and again. He clutches the books even as they go out to play, swinging sticks and plucking at flowers and laughing with Faye, Tobin and Gray. There is no corner of Ram left unseen, no alley left untread. They are explorers playing villagers and bandits amidst familiar surroundings and familiar faces, and he is pretending, always pretending they were meant for more.

More, the stony walls of forts.  
More, the calls of merchants selling wares.  
More, the faraway crystals of ice in Rigel.  
More, the wooden planks of Archanaea’s docks. 

But Ram is sleepy, yet Ram is home, all they’ve ever known- Days run by like clockwork, but the monotony’s not nearly as bad with friends and their games- It’s easy to ignore the wanderlust pricking at his feet, easy when repelled by the stories of demons in the woods, easy with promises of safety, friendship and nothing ever worse than skinned knees, a bruise or two and tears pricking at your eyes.

It’s even easier when Celica arrives, a strange shift in the air with another new voice in the crowd, a new stick waving around, a new variable in their comfortable tick-tick-tock, easiest when they almost lose their lives on the outskirts of town to lances and spears. They run back with wobbly knees, Kliff runs back with tears in his eyes and a limp in his gait.

There’s no need to leave, not yet.

There’s no need to be any more than a child, sickly and skittish as he is.

For now, Ram is home.

 

* * *

 

They are boys filled with wanderlust, little more than the children they were- It grows, itches with every glance beyond the horizon, with what little news can reach them there through the blades that lurked in the thickets. Every wall seems old, every voice the same, so perhaps that’s why they set to training on fences and walls- The blackened wall was an accident, but in a way, it’s change, and he still tries to justify himself with that- A show of force for a change of scenery. But faraway places are still nothing but descriptions and paintings, an impossibility they cannot yet grasp.

He lets himself hope, though, because the same sentiment echoes itself in Alm’s eyes with glimpses of worlds he’s never seen, high pines and deep evergreens, stark whites against grey skies. It’s set off by noble wishes, hands that clench and unclench with every new scrap of news he can hear. Sir Mycen’s mouth sets itself in a harder line with each refusal, but Alm doesn’t give in. He won’t, not anytime soon- Not on this- And he seizes the chance when it comes, comes in form of the Deliverance.

There, Kliff realizes with a jolt, that there’s a difference between a concept and it becoming reality. Doubt flickers through their minds, all of them, accompanied by Tobin’s bewilderment, Faye’s pleas for Alm to reconsider, memories of the knights with their wicked grins, their lances, without any mercy. He suppresses a shudder, suggests wryly that they may as well die at the same lance.

It doesn’t last long, though, and Gray jumps in, devil-may-care in a way only he could ever be, and they all follow the lead of their leader and one of their own- And soon their group sets out, close behind Lukas as they leave Ram behind. Alm’s hands are steady on his blade as he fights, his are the only ones Kliff takes real note of- The very hands that courageously opened a metaphorical new gateway to another world, waiting to be explored, a world he’s been longing for for ages, seen glimpses of in the other’s eyes. His is an enabling courage, an admirable courage.

He emulates it as flames crackle at his fingers, an imperfect imitation in his sneers at fearful faces.

He’ll just have to learn to make that courage his own.

 

* * *

 

They are soldiers quenching their wanderlust, marching across the continent to go to war with Desaix, Rigel, Duma- Flames, sparks, wind all rushed between his fingers, scorching and cutting the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands into smooth magic-scars, and casting didn’t hurt as much anymore. He’s stopped counting how many he’s struck down, doesn’t think anyone’s still counting, really, and oddly enough, he feels a foreign thrill at the power at his disposal, at how many people he’s faced down and triumphed over.

Fifteen, sixteen, ‘too young’ his ass- He showed them, making sure that sight was their last.

Though sometimes, the fact still scares him, but it doesn’t, not really. They’re just another smudge on the landscape, people who threaten them before they can threaten back- Or maybe it’s all just like a little children’s quarrel, but with swords, lances, axes, witches, and the underlying promise of death. Alm says it’s for Zofia, says it’s to stop Rigel, says it’s to lay the gods to rest for the age of man that is to come. He wants to believe him.

In the end, Kliff’s just honestly coming along for the ride- Where Alm goes, he’ll follow, just like it had always been in Ram, as long as there’s a chance of seeing, experiencing something, _anything_ new. Luthier proved to be amusing, knowledgeable, the rush from the waters of the sluice gate a natural melody he’s never heard, Rigel’s air a pleasant, unfamiliar chill against flushed cheeks. Silently, he thanks Alm for giving him an opportunity to run, get away, and watches him grow into a formidable leader from the distance all the while- He fears he’s becoming distant, but never really says so, because he’s always been the odd one out, while Gray and Tobin’s voices never failed to reach out and bring their leader back from his worries and Faye never faltered in her boundless, if not somewhat uncomfortable and painfully unreciprocated love, and heavens knows that Alm can’t stop thinking about Celica since their fight.

It’s times like these where Kliff wishes he were better with affection- He’s always wished it, really, but he doesn’t want to and can’t change what’s built up over the years. He did this so people wouldn’t hound and bother him anymore, and doesn’t want to break it all down and risk people seeing him as the little kid crybaby all over again. But it’s lonely, he confesses over a room-temperature yogurt to a shitfaced Python who can’t understand what he’s hearing anymore. It’s lonely, and he thinks he’s in love. Python snorts, slurs something wholly incoherent and unrelated in response, and honestly, Kliff thinks, what’s the point?

He denies the slight lightness in his chest at letting the vague statement settle in the room, but doesn’t deny himself much else- What he feels has always been clear as day, but with the way the forests whisper _her_ name into the wind and he stares off to a place miles and miles beyond, Kliff knows that acceptance won’t do him an awful lot of good. Celica is enough for Alm, and he doesn’t need to know, he’s got enough on his hands, and if Faye failed, where would Kliff ever get? All he has are silent childish fantasies of calloused hands and smiling lips on lips, vague dreams of his nails dragging over reddened skin he'd rather not recall. He scoffs, pushes himself away from the table with a screech of the chair against the floor.

Recalling a conversation from weeks ago, he knows he’s being a hypocrite, but humans are like that, aren’t they? You don’t understand, you won’t ever understand, I don’t want you to understand, he hears echoing at the back of his head, and keeps his secret clutched in shaking fingers as he tries to send the thought up in flames.

Just because he _acknowledges_ it doesn’t have to mean he has to _like_ it.

 

* * *

 

He’s a sort of war hero, unable to discern wanderlust from a visceral need to run away. Perhaps it’s a little of both, with how so much of what he’s seen so far goes back to each moment he’s spent with their leader, their king, at his side or from the sidelines, how his heart still hungers for sights unseen and lands uncharted- He imagines himself in a great desert, amidst ancient cities swallowed by sand, and hopes to scream to the horizons in a place where not even the gods can hear him.

But if they did, perhaps they really would understand, understand why he can’t change it no matter how much he wants to, understand why he hates it so much. Status as close friend be damned, he doesn’t even know how long he can be genuinely happy for the king and queen before jealousy gnaws at him like it does to all of mankind, growing with each tender look they share and the gentle tone they say each other’s names in, a tone in which he knows he’ll never hear his own- He’s scared of himself as is, of the way he still laughs in the face of death and the heavy bolts of magic he can fling without even flinching. It’s sad, kind of, how he can barely trust himself anymore, not as long as he’s in earshot of Valentian gossip, reports, political small talk, news.

So he decides to leave, setting sail for Archanaea at the first opportunity- Though he doesn’t tell anyone, not directly, he knows that they would’ve let him go, regardless, and he would never be absolutely sure if it’s because they care or they don’t care enough. He pretends, briefly, that it’s so they don’t cry or get too mushy when he leaves and says goodbye, that it’s so he doesn’t hurt them one more time, later switches over to believing it’s so that he doesn’t suddenly confess the secret that’s been stuck in his throat for years, the ‘ _I love you_ ’ trapped in his lungs, caught between his teeth.

Later, he accepts that it’s because he didn’t want to hear, see, feel the truth in their faces, voices, in case they really never did care at all- All in all, a cowardly move, because he thinks he knows his doubts were unfounded, knows he should trust his friends more.

In the end, he still leaves a letter with Alm, his king, his leader, and most importantly, his friend, with gentle words veiled in apologies, boxed and wrapped in his usual snark, but Kliff knows Alm isn’t an idiot. So he doesn’t wait for a reply, doesn’t expect one, ever, as he leans on the wooden railing of a rocking ship, staring down into the seafoam curling and dispersing on the surface of the ocean, ready to be lost to history and vague records of his existence, maybe, pretending he doesn’t mind being forgotten for all but his magic.

He’s running away, again, pretending it’s for the greater good this time.

And he doesn’t ever go back, even after he thinks the storm has thinned, because he’s afraid that it’ll all come crashing back.

 

* * *

 

He wishes he can go back, though, but though his heart never settled, he eventually has. Scornful, jealous words of a young adult become measured, patient, fond, and he tries to keep holding those memories dear, tries to keep that kind note to his voice in a place where no one has ever known him, where he can fade away in the blink of an eye for all but one.

He looks at his son, the boy’s eyes sparkling with a familiar look of wanderlust, and doesn’t feel dread.

His voice doesn’t give as his hands point towards Valentia, towards the throne of the Saint King, towards Ram Village.

He tells him about the young king, reminiscent of Rigel’s evergreens if they would love cats and make countless horrible puns, with a leader’s heart, the smile of a friend.

And somehow, inexplicably, the boy understands.

Kliff's never been more glad about being wrong.

 

* * *

 

He’s a traveler filled with wanderlust, finally setting foot in Valentia and heading for the One Kingdom's capital- Arriving at his father’s homeland.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i am the kliffalm agenda but also somehow i can never write it reciprocatedly because alm/celica is also really really good? also, again, i apologize for literally everything here
> 
> as always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!


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